No Time to Die & the Deep End of Fear

  Besides, even if Liza had been a more ordinary girl, no teen believes death is waiting for her. Certainly, standing by the creek that sunny afternoon, I didn't.

  Chapter 4

  Our director arrived by motorcycle. The guys thought it was cool. I think a middle-aged man with a big paunch straddling a motorcycle looks like a jack-in-the-box before it springs—all rolled up in himself. In any case, it was a dramatic entrance, especially since he rode the cycle across the park grass and partway up a pavilion ramp, stopped only by Maggie running down it, waving her arms frantically, screaming that the machine was too heavy.

  Walker backed up his vehicle and climbed off. He was greeted like a hero, the guys swarming down the walkway to see the cycle, the girls lining up on the deck of the pavilion, like ladies watching from the top of a castle wall. When Walker removed his helmet, I saw that he was bald. A few reddish strands of hair had been recruited from a low part and combed over his dome; the remaining hair grew long enough to curl over his shirt collar.

  "This is a merry troupe," he said, striding up the ramp.

  Inside the pavilion we sat in a circle with Walker at the center. He asked us to introduce ourselves, say where we lived, and tell something about our interests.

  My parents had known Walker Burke years ago in New York, but I couldn't remember meeting him, and if I had, I would have been too young for him to recognize me now. The autobiography submitted with my application was mostly true. Realizing that whoppers would make it too easy to slip up, I had changed only what was necessary to conceal my identity, like making myself the child of a magazine editor and his wife. I had showed the bio to the two people who had agreed to recommend me under the name of Jenny Baird so there would be no inconsistencies. When called on, I was brief.

  Other kids went on and on. It took at least forty minutes to get all the way around the circle of introductions. At last the final person spoke, the heavyset guy who had admired the architecture of Drama House.

  "Tomas Alvarez," he said, using the Spanish pronunciation of his first name.

  "My set designer," Walker replied.

  "I am?"

  Applicants had been invited to submit a design for the set of the play; apparently his had been chosen. Tomas's face lit up like a Halloween pumpkin's.

  "It needs revision, of course," Walker said, then rose to his feet. He wiped his neck, cricked it left and right, and rolled his shoulders. He seemed to be winding up for a speech.

  "Now, people," he said, "let me tell you what I expect from you. The absolute best. A hundred percent and more. Nothing less than your heart, soul, and mind."

  He began to pace.

  "From eight-thirty A.M. to four-thirty p.m. you will be mine. I will work you hard, so hard that at dinnertime your faces will drop onto your plates. And after dinner I will expect more of you."

  He took a pair of glasses from his pocket, a nice prop with which to gesture.

  "That means I expect each of you to keep yourselves in top physical shape. I expect you to eat right, to sleep eight hours a night, and to avoid risky behavior. You are old enough to know what I mean by risky behavior."

  We glanced at one another.

  "You will have studying to do, lines to memorize, films to watch. Your life here will be utterly devoted to drama. You will eat, breathe, and sleep drama.

  You will feel as if the theater owns you. If you had something less than this in mind, you should transfer to one of those cushy New York moneymakers."

  I wondered how many people were considering it.

  "Other directors coddle their young actors. They treat their tender egos with kid gloves and teach them to think better of themselves than they should.

  What I am going to teach you is to act. Come hell or high water, you'll learn."

  Welcome to drama boot camp, I thought.

  "In the long run," Walker said, "you'll find the skills I teach you more useful than a New York attitude."

  Clearly, he didn't like the Big Apple.

  Walker then asked Maggie to go over the rules—procedures at mealtime, curfew, and special instructions for campers who opted to stay through the weekend. Brian arrived while she was talking. Curious about Mike, I glanced around, but the faces were too unfamiliar for me to notice if someone new had arrived. Brian was introduced to us as the stage manager and gave us the schedule for the coming week: auditions tomorrow, a read-through on Wednesday morning, and blocking beginning that afternoon.

  "Everyone will audition and everyone will do crew work," Walker told us. "There are thirty-two of you. I'm casting twice the number of fairies, which gives us twenty-six roles. But everyone, including my six techs, will be involved at least in understudy work. Got it? Any questions?"

  Tomas raised his hand and waited for Walker to acknowledge him. "About trying out," the boy said, "I'd rather not."

  Walker gazed at him for a long moment. "Tomas, do you have a hearing problem?"

  "No, sir."

  "Do you have attention deficit disorder?"

  "Uh, no."

  "Do you have any excuse at all for not hearing what I just said?" No, sir.

  "Are you fat?"

  Kids snickered.

  "Yes," Tomas said quietly.

  "Obviously, but that's no excuse for not trying out."

  It's no excuse for embarrassing him, either, I thought, though I had hung around enough shows to know there were directors who made an art form of bullying others. Not wanting to offer up myself as the next public victim, I decided to talk to Walker later about my problem with stage fright. I hoped Brian would keep his promise and ease the way for me.

  Maggie ended the meeting, tell ing us to get to know one another and reminding us to stay in the area between the bridge and the school docks. The grills had arrived by truck, and burgers would be ready in about forty minutes.

  I followed a group of kids down the pavilion ramp and into the small park, where there were swings and a gazebo.

  "Hey, Jenny," Brian called, "wait a sec." He caught up and started walking with me. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Walker about your stage fright, but I didn't want you to worry. I'll do it before tomorrow, okay?'

  "Thanks. He comes on strong."

  Brian laughed. "Don't be snowed by him. Walker puts on a great act, but really, he's just a frustrated director who didn't make it in New York. Thanks to my mother—she knew him when she was a grad student at NYU—he can still live out his dream, creating magic moments of theater in the midst of cornfields. If there are empty seats at a show, we fill them with scarecrows."

  "That's too bad," I said.

  Brian cocked his head.

  "I mean, I don't like him very much, but I feel bad for anyone who isn't where he wants to be."

  "Oh, don't worry about Walker. Here he is king of drama, just as he always thought he should be."

  I didn't respond.

  "Maybe I'm being too harsh," Brian added quickly. "Try to understand. I've spent most of my life hanging around theater, and sometimes I get a little cynical about the people who do it."

  I smiled at him. I knew how that was.

  "I wish I could hang out with you, Jenny," he said, returning my smile, "but I'm staff and right now I'm head burger flipper."

  He turned back toward the grills, which had been set up along the walkway between the pavilion and the park. I continued past the gazebo, where some of the campers had gathered, crossed the grass toward the creek, then followed a path along its bank. Plumed grasses six feet tall, like those that grew around the pavilion, gave way to a timber bulwark that lined the creek almost as far as the bridge.

  After Liza died, my mother thought we should come to Wisteria and toss flowers in the water beneath the bridge, but my father said he couldn't bear it.

  So we huddled together in our New York apartment while Sid and a family friend accompanied Liza's body home. Now I had to see for myself the place where she had died.

  I guess one expects the location of
a life-changing event to be remarkable in some way, but as I approached the bridge, I saw that it was quite ordinary, supported by round pilings, its undergirding painted a grayish blue, its old concrete stained with iron rust and crumbling at the edges. Stepping into the bridge's shadow I studied the mud and stones by the water's edge, where they had found Liza, then quickly pulled back.

  The guy in the black clothes was there. I leaned forward again, just far enough to see him. He was sitting on the bank beneath the bridge, staring out at the water, his wrists resting on his knees, his hands loose and still.

  He suddenly turned in my direction. His eyes had changed mood, their brilliant blue darkened like the water in the bridge's twilight.

  I waited for him to speak, then finally said, "I saw you inside the theater."

  He didn't reply.

  "You were in the balcony."

  still he was silent.

  "You acted as if you didn't want to be seen."

  The way he listened and focused on me, as if picking up something I wasn't aware of, made me uncomfortable.

  "What were you doing?" I persisted.

  "tell me your name," he said softly.

  "Jenny. Jenny Baird. You didn't answer my question. What were you doing?"

  He stood up. He was a big guy, over six feet, with broad shoulders. When he walked toward me, I instinctively took a step back. He noticed and stopped.

  "I'm Mike Wilcox."

  My heart gave a little jerk. Liza's guy.

  "Where are you from, Jenny Baird?"

  "New York."

  "City or state?"

  "The city."

  "You don't talk like it," he observed.

  It was true. Mom and Dad's trained voices and their constant coaching of Liza and me had ironed out any trace of a New York accent.

  "We traveled a lot," I told him. "My father kept getting different jobs. But Manhattan is home now."

  "At camp last year we had a girl from Manhattan who had a schooled voice like yours. Her name was Liza Montgomery. Did you know her?"

  I met his eyes steadily. "No. But I've heard about her. She's a hot topic among campers."

  "I bet," he replied with a grimace. "In answer to your question: I was thinking about Liza."

  "Were you close to her?"

  "No. Just friends."

  "But I thought—" I broke off.

  He observed my face shrewdly. "You thought what?"

  "I heard you and Liza Montgomery were in love."

  Check the actor's hands, my father always told us. Mike's face was composed, but his hands tense, his fingers curled. "You're confusing me with Paul."

  "No, Paul was obsessed with her—that's what they said. You were in love." That's what Liza said, I added silently.

  "I think I should know better than they," he replied shortly.

  "Today in the theater, did you hear"—I hesitated, remembering at the last minute that I wasn't supposed to know what Liza's voice sounded like—"voices?"

  "I heard you reciting the lines from Twelfth Night."

  "Anything else?"

  He gazed at me thoughtfully. "Well, Brian came in then."

  "Before that—how long had you been there?"

  "I arrived just before you began to speak."

  Maybe, I thought, but I had heard a rustling noise wel before that.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Just curious."

  We stared at each other, both of us defiant, each aware that the other person wasn't being candid.

  "Well, I'm headed back to the party."

  "Enjoy it," he said. "I'm going to stay here a little longer."

  "To think about Liza?"

  He nodded. "She was a very talented girl. And a friend," he added.

  Liar, I thought, and strode away.

  Chapter 5

  We arrived back at Drama House about eight-thirty that evening. Some of the girls got sodas from a vending machine and holed up in the common room to talk, but I was tired of being someone other than myself, always thinking about how to respond as Jenny Baird, and was glad to escape to my room.

  While I unpacked, I thought about the things that the kids from last year had said about Liza. I didn't like the idea that a creepy guy was obsessed with her. And it bothered me that the guy she had fallen in love with now claimed they were no more than friends. Maybe I remembered Liza's e-mails incorrectly, I thought, then retrieved from my suitcase a folder of notes I had saved. Sitting sideways in the window seat, I pulled my feet up, and began to read.

  Jen—Hi!

  I finally made it here and it's great. I had no idea so many cute guys hung around a nothing—happening place. Lucky for me, there aren't many cute girls.

  But our curfew is unbelievable. I0 P.M.!!! And lights out at I!!! I'm just waking up then. I've got a cool room on the first floor with a window seat (a real window seat! Where's Jane Austen?) and another big window to climb out of. I'll be in at I0:00 and out at I0:05.

  Miss you. Miss you a lot. Love, L

  P.S. Would you look for my silver barrette and mail it to me? It should be in my top drawer, or my jewelry box, or on the bathroom shelf, maybe the kitchen, check Sid's car. Thanx.

  I continued reading through the batch of notes—her description of Stoddard Theater, her account of the funny things that had happened during auditions, and her reaction to Walker.

  He's always criticizing me, Jen, me more than anybody else. I make him mad because I don't cringe like the others at his stupid remarks. I just stare at him. One of these days I'm going to give it back. He's a nobody acting like he's directing Broadway. Somebody's got to put Walker in his place. Looks like it'll have to be me.

  There were frequent references to "Boots." Of course, given Liza's difficulty in following rules, she and Maggie had had a few run-ins. Liza thought Brian was nice. I found only two mentions of Paul. She was aware of his interest in her, but seemed to consider him just another of her fans. Maybe she had seen too many weirdos in New York to be alarmed, I thought. She didn't get along with Keri.

  Talk about a snob! She finds the whole world boring, which, if you ask me, is the ultimate in snobbery. Her parents have given her so much that the only thing left to want is something she can't have—like Paul. In front of everybody she announced that she couldn't stand my jasmine perfume. Fine, I told her, stay away from me so you don't have to smell it—make us both happy!

  I remembered correctly the romantic way Liza had described her relationship with Mike—Michael as she called him.

  "It's Mike," he keeps saying, but I like the sound of Michael better—Mikes are guys who work at Kmart. He is so gorgeous—dark hair, blue eyes to die for, tall but not one of those skinny Hamlet types—a real guy. We're like so in love, but we both fake a little. I don't discourage the other guys who are interested in me because it's always good to keep each other wondering. But really, Jen, this is true love!!! You've got to come down and meet my incredible guy.

  Please come soon.

  The descriptions of Michael and Liza's shared moments filled the rest of her e-mails. I remembered thinking when I first read them that Liza had finally figured out what counted, for the things she was talking about so romantically were small acts of kindness, little bits of gentleness, not wild kisses. Usually, Liza went for cool, star types like herself, and after she and the guy grew tired of showering each other with flattery, the fighting got ugly. Maybe Liza had finally fallen for a guy who was terrific on the inside, too.

  And maybe I should have been gentler, I thought, not trying to force Mike to admit his feelings for my sister.

  I read all the way through the correspondence and came to the last e-mail, the one that had been sent after lunch the day Liza died.

  Jenny, Don't tell Mom and Dad, but I'm thinking about coming home. I know they won't want me to pull out of the production, but I think I have to. I've hurt someone very badly, and I don't know how to make it up. I had no idea—I didn't mean it—it's terrible. I need to talk
to you.

  1:20—rehearsal's started. Talk later. L

  Whom Liza had hurt, I never found out. I showed the note to the police, but they dismissed it as normal high-school stuff. The pattern of the serial murderer had been established, and his victims appeared to be random. They weren't looking for suspects who knew Liza and would have had some kind of personal motive.

  I wondered again what had happened that day. Had Liza suddenly realized she was hurting Paul? Had something occurred between her and Mike?

  Maybe that's why he denied their relationship now. Or, had she let Walker have it between the eyes? My sister had a better command of language than she had realized and could sometimes be cruel in what she said.

  It wasn't until I got her phone message that night that I checked my e-mail. If I had checked earlier, I might have reached her before she slipped out the window. If I had gone to Wisteria when Liza invited me, I might have helped her get out of whatever mess she was in. I could have been with her and kept her from venturing out the same night as the murderer.

  Closing the folder, I carried it to the bureau and placed it in a drawer under a pile of shirts. Then I turned out the lamp by my bed and climbed back in the window seat. I listened to the sounds of the summer night and the mix of music and laughter that floated down from open windows. A moth flicked its wings against my screen. Though I wasn't tired, my eyelids felt as fluttery as a moth. There was a cool breeze and my head grew light, so light it could have floated off my shoulders. Closing my eyes, I leaned against the soft wire screen. My mind slipped into a strange, textureless darkness. Its edges glimmered with pale blue light.

  Then my body jerked and I was alert, aware of the sound of my own breathing, quick and hoarse. I felt as if I had been running fast. I held my side, massaging it. I opened my mouth, trying to catch my breath silently, afraid to make the slightest noise.

  It was swampy where I was—I could smell the creek and feel the ground ooze beneath my feet. A rooflike structure supported by pilings stretched over the dark area. I listened to the lap of water against the pilings, then footsteps sounded above. Fear flashed through me like light off a knife blade.