“Yes, that tactic seems to be working well for us so far.”
Ignoring Gilley’s running commentary I said, “Evie seemed to think highly of her science teacher. Maybe we could try one of the younger teachers and see what they know, instead of one of these old curmudgeons.”
“What was the name of her science teacher, again?” Gil said as he found a spot to pull over and reached into a side compartment to pull out his laptop.
“Some guy named Vesnick,” I said. “Not a real common name. See if there are any listings in the area for someone like that.”
Gil hit pay dirt about ten minutes later. “I think I found him,” he said. “Ray Vesnick, former address is in New York City. Employment record has him at Royce High School in Brooklyn, but his current address lists a place near here in Wheaton—remember?” he said to me when I gave him a blank look. “That’s the town our waiter at the View was from.”
I nodded, “Oh, yeah,” I said. “And I’ll bet it’s the same Vesnick. Evie said that this was his first year here. Maybe his employment record hasn’t caught up to him yet.”
“That’s a definite possibility. Employment records are usually the least reliable because they’re so slow to update,” Gil agreed.
“Should we pay him a visit then and see if it’s our guy?”
“We can be there in twenty minutes,” Gil said, putting away the laptop and shifting the van into gear.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We arrived at the address Gilley had pulled off the Internet, and I looked skeptically up at the storefront apartment that appeared to be Vesnick’s residence. If there was a seedy part of Lake Placid, this area seemed to be it. “Homey,” Gil said sarcastically.
“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked for the third time.
“Yes, M.J., I’m sure.”
“Well, then, let’s get this over with.” We got out of the van and scoped the street, which was littered with garbage. A party store was on the corner of the large building taking up most of the block. Vesnick’s place was right above a tattoo parlor. A bar was next to that. We crossed the street, and I noticed that several young men hanging out in front of the bar were giving Gilley and me the once-over. I stole a glance at Gilley and noticed that he was doing his best impression of a straight man, as his walk had lost its usual swishy cadence. In any other circumstance I would have laughed out loud, but here and now I was actually grateful he wasn’t inviting any extra attention.
At the doorway that marked the entrance to the apartments upstairs there was a list of four names on a nameplate and dingy, yellowed buzzers next to each name. Gilley depressed the one for apartment two, marked in faded black ink with R. VESNICK. After a moment a scratchy male voice responded through the speaker box, “Yes?”
“Mr. Vesnick?” Gil asked.
“Speaking,” he said.
“Hi! It’s Gilley Gillespie!”
“Who?”
“Ohmigod! I can’t believe you don’t remember me! I was in your science class at Royce!” There was no response to Gilley’s claim, and he gave me an apologetic look that seemed to say, Sorry, I tried, when the buzzer on the door sounded and we both jumped. I grabbed the handle and pulled it open and we headed up the stairs.
From the top of the landing looking down at us was a man in his early thirties with wire-rimmed glasses and long, sandy blond hair. He had a square jaw and a Roman nose, and I could see immediately why Ellie had liked him. He was cute in a bookish sort of way. “Hello?” Vesnick said as we climbed the stairs.
We both waved at him and continued to climb. Gil had taken the unspoken lead on this one, as I’d had so much luck with the last teacher, so I let him go up the stairs to greet Vesnick first. When he crested the landing Vesnick’s face became confused. Gilley was clearly too old to have been in his class. “Hello, Mr. Vesnick,” Gilley said, extending his hand.
Vesnick took his hand and shook it. “Hello,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t recognize you.”
Gilley smiled warmly. “I know, and I’m sorry. I may have tricked you a little down there with that bit about being in your class at Royce. We’ve actually been hired by the parents of one of your students, Evie O’Neal.”
Vesnick’s face turned immediately to worry. “Hired by Evie’s parents?” he asked cautiously. “What for?”
“Do you remember an incident that happened last week during your final examination?” Gilley said.
“I never told Evie to go into that wing,” Vesnick said, and there was something close to panic on his face. “I swear to God, I never told any of the students to go in there!”
Gilley seemed to be confused about Vesnick’s reaction. He hadn’t thought through how accusatory his introduction had been. “Hello, Mr. Vesnick,” I said, jumping in before Gilley completely botched it. “I’m M. J. Holliday, and I want to assure you that we’re not here to point fingers. We’re not the authorities, or attorneys.”
“Then who are you?” Vesnick said, and his body language was still stiff and edgy.
“We’re ghostbusters,” I said, going for the God’s honest truth.
Vesnick stared at us for a few seconds as if he were waiting to hear the punch line. “Seriously,” he said. “What is this about?”
I reached into my coat and pulled out my business card. Handing it to him I said, “We really are ghostbusters. We’ve done dozens of paranormal investigations, and we’ve helped give relief to many families troubled by poltergeist activity.”
Vesnick looked from my card to me, still wearing that Is this a joke? look. “And Evie’s parents hired you to what? Get rid of Hatchet Jack?”
Gil and I both nodded vigorously. Finally, a teacher who got it. “Yes, that’s exactly what they hired us to do.”
“Okay,” he said cautiously. “What do I have to do with this?”
At that moment a woman came out of the apartment next to Vesnick’s and gave the three of us a pointed look. “I’m trying to watch my shows, Ray,” she complained. “I can’t listen if you threes are out here gabbing it up.”
“Sorry, Adeline,” he said to her. Turning back to us he said, “Won’t you come in?”
We followed behind Vesnick out of the hall and into his cramped and cluttered apartment. The entry fed directly into his kitchen, which was strewn with Styrofoam containers and empty Chinese take-out cartons. “Sorry about the mess,” he said as he scooped up several of the containers and emptied them into his trash. I was immediately reminded of Muckleroy and his cluttered office. “It’s fine,” I said, pointing to a chair with a silent May I sit there? expression.
“Sure,” he said, and pulled out his own chair. Gilley sat next to me and was quiet. He’d let me take the lead back.
“As I was saying,” I said to Vesnick. “We’re investigating the paranormal activity at the school. Unfortunately, all the staff members we’ve spoken to so far haven’t been very helpful.”
“Who’ve you spoken to?” Vesnick wanted to know.
“Mr. Ballsach, the dean, and Mr. Skolaris,” Gil said.
Vesnick made a snorting sound. “Doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Anyone who’s been able to hang in there longer than two years is in total denial about Jack.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
Vesnick made another sarcastic snorting sound. “Because no one can afford to stay at that place for longer than two years. Ballsach and Skolaris are the two exceptions.”
“What do you mean, no one can afford to stay there?” Gilley asked.
“Northelm doesn’t pay squat for its teaching staff,” Vesnick said. “I mean, look around this place. If I were being paid well do you think I’d live here?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gilley as he glanced around.
“Maybe with a fresh coat of paint and a few window treatments…” I poked him before he had a chance to continue playing Queer Eye for the Science Guy.
“Why do people agree to teach there at all??
?? I asked.
“It’s a résumé builder,” Vesnick said. “Once you’ve got Northelm on your résumé you can pretty much write your own ticket to any boarding school in the States or overseas. My goal is to get to Switzerland, and two years here will be just the thing to get me there.”
“We’ve been to Skolaris’s house,” I said thoughtfully.
“He didn’t seem to be struggling financially at all.”
Vesnick laced his fingers together. “There’s a common rumor among the staff that Skolaris gets paid considerably more than any of the other teachers.”
“What about Ballsach?” I asked. “Is he also well compensated?”
“Probably,” said Vesnick. “But I know that guy comes from old money. He’s always going on about all the boarding schools he attended when he was younger.”
“Getting back to Hatchet Jack,” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from idle gossip. “What do you know about him?”
“I know that the kids are pretty much terrified of him. They’re convinced that when they move into that dorm next year he’s going to claim someone as his victim. A few of the kids have even resorted to making up excuses about not returning. One of my eighth graders told his parents he has a drug and alcohol problem, and has chosen to go to rehab rather than return to Northelm in the fall.”
“Sounds pretty drastic.”
“It is, unless you happen to have seen Hatchet Jack firsthand,” Vesnick said, and I caught the smallest of shivers traveling up his spine.
“You’ve seen him,” I said, more statement than question.
Vesnick gave me a level look. “I have,” he admitted.
“Once, last summer before the student body had returned. I was setting up my classroom late one evening when I heard a child calling for help out on the lawn. I raced outside and saw a young boy and a man running along the back edge of the property, the young boy still screaming for help.
“I ran after them and managed to almost catch up to them. That’s when the man threw something at the boy, and I saw it was a hatchet. I even heard it strike the boy, and he went down to the ground immediately.”
“What happened next?” Gilley asked with large, captivated eyes when Vesnick paused.
“They vanished,” Vesnick said, wringing his hands. “Both of them. Just vanished.”
“What day of the week was it?” I asked.
Vesnick gave me a startled look. I’m sure he thought it was an odd question. “Um…” he said, thinking. “It was a Friday.”
“Do you remember the time?”
Vesnick thought for a moment and subconsciously glanced at the clock. “It was just after six p.m.”
“And the boy,” I pressed. “Do you remember what his hair color was?”
“It was red,” he said. “He had red hair, like Opie.”
Gil and I exchanged a look before I asked, “And the other teachers—have any of them had similar sightings?”
“Only one other that I know of, Cathy Wingerman. She taught Spanish at the school.”
“Did you tell the dean about your encounter?” I said.
“Yes,” Vesnick said, and his look turned spiteful.
“What was his reaction?”
“Adverse,” Vesnick said. “He didn’t want to hear it and he ordered me not to discuss it with anyone, especially the students.”
“And did you?” Gilley said. “Did you talk with anyone else about it?”
“Besides Cathy, no, and I only did that because she brought it up to me. Cathy was let go just after midwinter break. She e-mailed me later to say that she never got a real answer from the dean about why he was firing her, but she suspected it was because she’d been overheard by some of the other teachers talking to some of the kids about Hatchet Jack. See, there’s an unwritten rule at Northelm that anyone who talks about Jack risks either getting fired or expelled, and, like I said, I need this job.” He seemed to realize at that moment that he’d been doing exactly what could get him fired, and he looked nervously at us. “Uh, hey, you’re not going to tell the dean what I said, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Gil assured him. “No one will know we were here.”
“Thanks,” Vesnick said, looking relieved.
“You’ve been most helpful,” I said, getting up. “We’ll do our best to get rid of Jack and make sure he doesn’t scare anyone ever again.”
We took our leave of Vesnick and made our way back to the van. Once inside Gilley asked, “What do you make of it?”
I shook my head. “Hell if I know,” I said. “I mean, it’s one thing to try to institute some rumor control so that you don’t risk driving away the students who are your bread and butter. But it’s a completely different game when you’re talking about firing teachers and expelling said bread and butter merely for discussing a couple of ghost sightings.”
“The question is: What is the dean really afraid of?”
“Or who?”
“Huh?” Gil asked.
“Who is the dean really afraid of?”
“Most people would be afraid of the ghost,” Gilley said.
“But Dean Habbernathy didn’t strike me that way.”
“No, he didn’t,” I agreed. “There’s more to this than just a violent poltergeist, Gil.”
“How do we find out what that is?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said wearily. “But let’s start by swinging by the police station and seeing if Muckleroy has come up with anything.”
Chapter 9
Since it was close to lunchtime by the time Gilley and I arrived back in Lake Placid, we opted to eat first, talk grisly murder scenarios second. As it happened, right around the time we’d placed our orders my cell phone beeped, and one glance at the caller ID told me it was Muckleroy. “Where are you guys?” he asked, getting right to the point.
“At the sandwich shop across the street from you,” I said. “Why? Has something happened?”
“Sit tight,” he said without further explanation. “I’ll be right there.”
“Something happening?” Gilley asked when I’d tucked my cell back into my pocket.
“Not sure,” I said. “But Muckleroy sounded excited.”
A few minutes later we saw the detective hurrying across the street, a folder tucked under one arm. He came into the diner, and Gilley and I waved. Sitting down next to me he flipped open his folder and slapped a photo on the table. “Recognize him?” he asked of the boy smiling out at me from the page.
“That’s Eric!” I exclaimed, picking up the black-and-white photo to examine it.
“You found him?” Gilley asked.
Muckleroy nodded, but before he could fill us in the waitress came by to ask if he would like to order some lunch. “I’ll take the grilled chicken club,” he said. “And a side salad.” After the waitress left he picked up where he left off by digging back into his folder and pulling out another photo. “How about this young man?” he asked.
“Ohmigod!” I said, picking up that black-and-white and looking at the little face I’d seen only in my mind’s eye.
“This is Mark!”
“These are the Foster boys, right?” Gil asked.
Muckleroy gave a wry smile and said, “Of sorts.”
“Huh?” Gil and I said together.
“Foster isn’t their last name,” he said. “It’s their status. They were both foster kids.”
“Whoa,” Gil said. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“It wasn’t an immediate leap for me either,” Muckleroy said. “And Eric’s description never popped out at me because, M.J., you and the coroner had me looking for a thirteen-year-old. Eric wasn’t reported missing by his foster mother until 1980—he would have been seventeen then, and too old for the body we found.”
“Why would she lie?” I gasped, horrified that a child could go missing four years earlier and the woman assigned and paid to protect him hadn’t reported it until it was far too late to find or help
him.
Muckleroy’s face was grim. “Unfortunately, like most counties, we’re strapped for cash and resources. The social worker assigned to Eric was involved in a huge scandal some twenty-five years ago. Apparently she was overwhelmed with case files and had lost track of quite a few of the kids assigned to her. She was supposed to do physical check-ins once every six months for each child, but the state didn’t find out that she’d actually stopped doing any kind of check-ins for many years before she was fired.
“The state assigned a couple of new social workers to take over her cases, and by all accounts they also botched the job. We think that dozens of kids simply fell through the cracks and either ran away and were never reported missing, or were reported missing long after they’d disappeared.”
“So Eric’s foster parents were able to continue claiming the money without notice until the new social workers came by?” I asked, still horrified.
“Looks that way. From the legwork I’ve already come up with, Eric Hinnely entered the foster care system when he was eight years old. He was bounced around from home to home for a few years and finally ended up with Maude Clayburn. She had a large house and said yes to every kid who came her way—apparently she needed the dough.”
“Have you spoken to her?” I asked as our sandwiches arrived. “She belongs in jail.”
“That’s between her and her maker now,” Muckleroy said. “Maude died in 1992.”
“What’s the story with Mark?” Gilley wanted to know.
Muckleroy took a bite of his sandwich and said, “He was in the same foster home with Eric and was reported missing at the same time. Maude claimed back then that the boys had run off together.”
“They were abducted,” I said. “Hatchet Jack took them.”
“It seems so,” said Muckleroy.
I’d pretty much lost my appetite, and I pushed my plate away, completely disgusted with the lack of care given to two young innocents. “Have you been able to track down any of the next of kin?”
“Mark Dobb’s mother died of a drug overdose shortly after he came into foster care,” said Muckleroy. “His father was listed as unknown on his birth certificate. Eric’s mother still lives in Wheaton. I have a call in to her residence, and I’d planned on going over there as soon as I hear from her.”