“No,” Mrs. Sigsby said, thinking of Alvorson’s missing wedding ring.
“I may assume she’s dressed?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Sigsby felt obscurely offended by the question.
“Have you checked her pockets?”
She looked at Stackhouse. He shook his head.
“Do you want to? This is your only chance, if you do.”
Mrs. Sigsby considered the idea and dismissed it. The woman had left her suicide note on the bathroom wall, and her purse would be in her locker. That would need checking, just as a matter of routine, but she wasn’t going to unwrap the housekeeper’s body and expose that protruding impudent tongue again just to find a ChapStick, a roll of Tums, and a few wadded-up Kleenex.
“Not me. What about you, Trevor?”
Stackhouse shook his head again. He had a year-round tan, but today he looked pale beneath it. The Back Half walk-through had taken a toll on him, too. Maybe we should do it more often, she thought. Stay in touch with the process. Then she thought of Dr. Hallas proclaiming himself an Aquarian and Stackhouse saying there were tons of beans in Beantown. She decided that staying in touch with the process was a really bad idea. And by the way, did September 9th really make Hallas a Libra? That didn’t seem quite right. Wasn’t it Virgo?
“Let’s do this,” she said.
“All righty, then,” Dr. Hallas said, and flashed an ear-to-ear smile that was all Heckle. He yanked the handle of the stainless steel door and swung it open. Beyond was blackness, a smell of cooked meat, and a sooty conveyer belt that angled down into darkness.
That sign needs to be cleaned off, Mrs. Sigsby thought. And that belt needs to be scrubbed before it gets clogged and breaks down. More carelessness.
“I hope you don’t need help lifting her,” Heckle said, still wearing his game-show host smile. “I’m afraid I’m feeling rather weakly today. Didn’t eat my Wheaties this morning.”
Stackhouse lifted the wrapped body and placed it on the belt. The bottom fold of the canvas dropped open, revealing one shoe. Mrs. Sigsby felt an urge to turn away from that scuffed sole and quelled it.
“Any final words?” Hallas asked. “Hail and farewell? Jenny we hardly knew ye?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mrs. Sigsby said.
Dr. Hallas closed the door and pushed the green button. Mrs. Sigsby heard a trundle and squeak as the dirty conveyer belt began to move. When that stopped, Hallas pushed the red button. The readout came to life, quickly jumping from 200 to 400 to 800 to 1600 and finally to 3200.
“Much hotter than your average crematory,” Hallas said. “Also much faster, but it still takes awhile. You’re welcome to stick around; I could give you the full tour.” Still smiling the big smile.
“Not today,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Far too busy.”
“That’s what I thought. Another time, perhaps. We see you so seldom, and we’re always open for business.”
10
As Maureen Alvorson was starting her final slide, Stevie Whipple was eating mac and cheese in the Front Half cafeteria. Avery Dixon grabbed him by one meaty, freckled arm. “Come out to the playground with me.”
“I ain’t done eating, Avery.”
“I don’t care.” He lowered his voice. “It’s important.”
Stevie took a final enormous bite, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and followed Avery. The playground was deserted except for Frieda Brown, who was sitting on the asphalt surrounding the basketball hoop and drawing cartoon figures in chalk. Rather good ones. All smiling. She didn’t look up as the boys passed.
When they arrived at the chainlink fence, Avery pointed at a trench in the dirt and gravel. Stevie stared at it with big eyes. “What did that? Woodchuck or sumpin?” He looked around as if he expected to see a woodchuck—possibly rabid—hiding under the trampoline or crouching beneath the picnic table.
“Wasn’t a woodchuck, nope,” Avery said.
“I bet you could squiggle right through there, Aves. Make an excape.”
Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, Avery thought, but I’d get lost in the woods. Even if I didn’t, the boat is gone. “Never mind. You have to help me fill it in.”
“Why?”
“Just because. And don’t say excape, it sounds ignorant. Ess, Stevie. Esscape.” Which is just what his friend had done, God love and bless him. Where was he now? Avery had no idea. He’d lost touch.
“Esscape,” Stevie said. “Got it.”
“Terrific. Now help me.”
The boys got down on their knees and began to fill in the depression under the fence, scooping with their hands and raising a cloud of dust. It was hot work, and they were both soon sweating. Stevie’s face was bright red.
“What are you boys doing?”
They looked around. It was Gladys, her usual big smile nowhere in sight.
“Nothing,” Avery said.
“Nothing,” Stevie agreed. “Just playin in the dirt. You know, the dirty ole dirt.”
“Let me see. Move.” And when neither of them did, she kicked Avery in the side.
“Ow!” he cried, and curled up. “Ow, that hurt!”
Stevie said, “What are you, on the rag or some—” Then he got his own kick, high up on the shoulder.
Gladys looked at the trench, only partially filled in, then at Frieda, still absorbed in her artistic endeavors. “Did you do this?”
Frieda shook her head without looking up.
Gladys pulled her walkie from the pocket of her white pants and keyed it. “Mr. Stackhouse? This is Gladys for Mr. Stackhouse.”
There was a pause, then: “This is Stackhouse, go.”
“I think you need to come out to the playground as soon as possible. There’s something you need to see. Maybe it’s nothing, but I don’t like it.”
11
After notifying the security chief, Gladys called Winona to take the two boys back to their rooms. They were to stay there until further notice.
“I don’t know nothing about that hole,” Stevie said sulkily. “I thought a woodchuck done it.”
Winona told him to shut up and herded the boys back inside.
Stackhouse arrived with Mrs. Sigsby. She bent and he squatted, first looking at the dip under the chainlink, then at the fence itself.
“Nobody could crawl under there,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Well, maybe Dixon, he’s not much bigger than those Wilcox twins were, but no one else.”
Stackhouse scooped away the loose mix of rocks and dirt the two boys had put back in, deepening the dip to a trench. “Are you sure of that?”
Mrs. Sigsby realized she was biting at her lip, and made herself stop. The idea is ridiculous, she thought. We have cameras, we have microphones, we have the caretakers and the janitors and the housekeepers, we have security. All to take care of a bunch of kids so terrified they wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
Of course there was Wilholm, who definitely would say boo to a goose, and there had been a few others like him over the years. But still…
“Julia.” Very low.
“What?”
“Get down here with me.”
She started to do it, then saw the Brown girl staring at them. “Get inside,” she snapped. “This second.”
Frieda went in a hurry, dusting off her chalky hands, leaving her smiling cartoon people behind. As the girl entered the lounge, Mrs. Sigsby saw a small cluster of children gawking out. Where were the caretakers when you needed them? In the break room, swapping stories with one of the extraction teams? Telling dirty jo—
“Julia!”
She dropped to one knee, wincing when a sharp piece of gravel bit into her.