Messenger of Fear Novella #1(3)

“Very clever,” I said again. “But who is he? And why is he doing this? And how did he get a key to the front door?”

“He does not have a key, but he knows where the spare key is kept. And his name is Barton Jones. As to why . . .”

I should be used to it by now, but it’s still unsettling to find yourself in a completely different place at a completely different time. It had been day. Now it was night. And this was not a home but a hotel room.

I walked over to a window and looked out, but the street scene didn’t tell me very much. The flyer on the desk did: Hilton Hotel, Boston.

Lisa was in the bed watching TV. She had a glass of wine in her hand and a mostly empty bottle on the nightstand. There was a knock at the door, and with a puzzled look she went to answer it. Framed in the doorway was Barton Jones.

“Hey, Mrs. Bayless.”

“What’s up there, Barton?” She slurred her words slightly, and the boy noticed. He also noticed that she was wearing a hotel robe and that the robe was not entirely closed.

“Um, the kids were asking what time we had to be ready in the morning,” he said.

Lisa saw him looking where he should not have looked, and her hand jerked toward the opening of her robe . . . and then dropped back to her side.

“Eight a.m.,” she said.

“Good wine?” he asked, nodding at the glass.

“Good enough. You like wine?”

He shrugged. “I won’t know unless I try some.”

She hesitated, and even glanced down the hotel hallway, which was empty. “Well, you’re old enough to try just a sip,” she said.

She turned away and walked slowly back toward the bed. “Close the door,” she said.

He seemed a little unsure whether she meant he should close it from the outside . . . or from inside. Now he glanced down the hallway, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him.

“I think I see where this is going,” I said, curling my lip in distaste.

“Yes,” Messenger agreed.

We did not stay for what came next. Nor did we pursue a greater understanding of just how this illegal relationship—if you can call the seduction of a child by an adult a relationship—progressed. I was not familiar with the laws of Massachusetts, but in California we called it rape.

Yes, society treats it differently when a woman is the adult, but a crime it is; and though he smirked and went very willingly, this boy was still just a boy, not a man.

Messenger and I discreetly left the room.

“They’re on a class trip,” I said, figuring it out as I spoke. “She’s one of the chaperones. I suppose things became less, um, um . . . cooperative?” That wasn’t quite the right word, but I didn’t know how to describe it.

Without any sense of movement or the passage of time, we were back in Lisa’s bedroom in her home.

A shirtless Barton and a barely covered Lisa were arguing.

“This is bs,” Barton was saying heatedly.

“It is not bs,” she shot back. “Your paper is still due. I may be your lover, but I’m also your teacher. And if you don’t hand in your paper, on time, I have no choice but to flunk you.”

And there it was: motive.

The argument went on for a while, round and round in increasingly acrimonious circles, until at last Lisa said, “My husband will be home soon; you have to get out of here.”

“He murdered her over a history paper?” I asked, incredulous, and since the two of them were still shouting not five feet from where I stood, the urge to demand an explanation of both of them was hard to resist.

But that time was not yet, and in any case, it doesn’t matter much. She had molested a minor. He had committed murder.

It is our duty as Messengers (and apprentices to same) to understand what has happened. And so we spent some time sifting through the details of her life and his. I suppose each had their reasons or excuses, but neither had an excuse that amounted to excusing the rape of a minor or cold-blooded murder.

Lisa had paid for her crime. Barton had not.





2


WE FOUND BARTON AT SCHOOL. HE WAS WORKING his way with swift confidence through a precalc test. It seemed he preferred math to history. At least his math teacher was still alive.

Messenger froze the class. It took Barton a few minutes to realize that no one around him was moving. He glanced left, glanced right, frowned at the teacher, who sat frozen, bending down to take something from a low bookshelf. And finally, he turned in his seat and saw us.

I don’t know what he thought at that moment; we were obviously not the police, but a guilty conscience is a powerful thing, so he leaped to his feet, scattering the test paper and pencils, and made a dash toward the door.

The door did not open. He tugged and twisted the knob, kicked at it, and finally, shoulders slumped, turned to face us.

“Who are you?” Barton demanded.

“Barton Jones,” Messenger said, “you have done wrong. You must first acknowledge the wrong, and then you must atone.”

Barton’s brown eyes darted to the left, then the right, and lingered on the windows, as if he might be preparing to jump. Out there the day was gray and overcast but must have looked like a better bet than standing around waiting for Messenger to explain. But in the end he calculated that it was hopeless and went back to asking belligerent questions.