An Invitation To Kill

Chapter 2-3

“Too bad about Wendy being somewhat homicidal, though.”

“That's a bit mean,” I said. “She has schizophrenia, and now she's being treated.”

“Wait. This schizoid killed someone?” Ellwood said, his interest obviously heightened.

“No. She stabbed her in the back. Just once. It was the other two girls who took turns stabbing her repeatedly, and then robbed her.” Moon rattled off. Thank you Moon.

“Jesus. How didn't I hear about this?” Ellwood wondered.

“You were working on your book,” Ham said. “It was hard to pull you away to get you to even watch the Cubs win the pennant.”

“Not into sports, dude,” Ellwood said without looking down at him.

“God, this is depressing. I need to go and get my things for my next class, anyway.” I turned to Brett. “Walk me out to my car, and then walk me at least halfway to the art class so I don't get lost, please?”

The fact that our menacing clown lurking about had me a bit nervous, since I not only saw him, but he saw me, wasn't lost on Brett. Arm around me, he headed me out to the parking lot. Whitney College stood in the middle of countryside, with farms on two sides, a main road that went east and west, and one that cut north and south. It was the only large building four miles from the nearest town, thus, no one had any business parking here unless they had classes or worked here. The parking lot was conveniently close to all exits, and wrapped around the large building on three sides. The first row we walked through had reserved signs posted for those I presumed worked here. Yep. I found the president's spot was closest to the door, naturally. The vice president's was next to his, and on either side were the reserved signs. My car was parked three rows back.

“Are you really going to try and identify him?” Brett asked while I grabbed my art box and sketch pad out of the back of my car.

Straightening, I said, “Why? Shouldn't I?”

“Maybe you should hold off on it. I mean, he hasn't really done anything bad, yet.”

“No. But, what if he does?” I said. “I don't need to remind you of the numerous shootings on campuses all over the country, do I?”

His head leaned to the side with agreement.

“What's he been saying on social media?”

“He's threatened teachers.”

“Just teachers in general? Or were there specific ones?”

“A couple. One was Ratner, and the other was Taylor,” he said.

I squinted at him. “Mr. Taylor? That's my creative writing teacher.”

“Yeah. Well, the names are out there.”

“I think someone has to know who this creep is before he does something horrible,” I said, shutting my car door and pressing the auto-lock button on my key fob.

Brett's silence either meant he agreed or didn't agree with me. I hadn't been able to read him yet, after these few weeks of either talking to him on the phone, or going out for something to eat, or just hanging out.

We went back inside, and took the cement stairs up to second floor. “This is it,” he said pointing. “From here on is the Art Wing. Didn't you say you had a night class?”

“On Tuesday. History—Western Civilization. I get two credits for it.” I sighed. “I don't relish the idea of coming out here at night.”

“I don't either,” he said. “Anyone you know have night class that night too?”

“No.” But I didn't know if there was anyone I knew from my high school who might be. I hoped there was.

“What time are you done with classes today?” Brett asked. Had he already forgotten?

“At two-thirty. This is my last class of the day.”

“I'll try and meet you back at your car, okay?”

“Sure.” I smiled up at him. “What class do you have?”

“Business management.”

“Oh, I had no idea you wanted to get into management,” I said, teasing him a little bit.

“Well, you know, I can't lean too much on my band and music to take me anywhere.”

“That's what I like about you. You're practical.” We passed a series of shut doors.

His arm slid around my shoulders. “We're just two practical people.”

We turned down a corridor and heard some sort of flute music.

“Sounds almost ethereal,” I said as we pulled up to an open door.

“Sounds like Native American flute,” Brett said.

Peering inside, we saw a guy sitting cross-legged on top of a desk. His black hair was in a long braid, a red bandanna tied around his head. At first I was transfixed on the spot, wondering why the man seemed familiar. I knew him, and had to remember from where I knew him. Then, when he stopped and looked up at us, it hit me who it was.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Brett said.

“Nate?” I said, taking a step inside the room. “Nate Blackstone?”

“Lainey?” Nate Blackstone hopped off the desk and strode forward.

“Yes.”

“You know each other?” Brett said.

“Yes. I met him over the summer.” Well, that didn't sound good. “You remember? He was there at the park, you know when we did that reconstruction? Him and Lassiter?”

“Oh. Right. Right,” he said thrusting a hand out to Nate and they shook hands briefly.

“I didn't know you played flute,” I said, admiring the unusual instrument. It was about as thick as an oboe but not as long. It had an eagle feather attached to it by a leather thong.

“Yeah, man. That was great,” Brett said, being admiring of another musician.

“Thanks.” Nate held up the thick wooden flute. I must admit I'd never seen anything like it. “This was my grandfather's. I'm trying to learn to play it.” He shook his head. “Can't seem to find the right time or place to do it.”

“Are you taking music classes here?” I asked.

“No. Not music.” He smiled. “They don't teach Native American flute here, I'm afraid. But I am taking automotive mechanics here, along with a few other courses.”

“That's good,” I said.

“Listen, we didn't mean to interrupt you, man,” Brett said, a possessive arm around my shoulders.

“That's alright. I've gotta go to my next class, anyway.” We all moved out into the hall working to part company, him going one way and us going another.

“Nice seeing you, again,” I said, raising my hand in a wave.

“Same here,” he said and strode off down the hallway.

Once he was gone we continued our way around a corner and finally came to the art rooms.

“Well, this is where I will leave you,” Brett said. We kissed and he was gone.

I opened the door and stepped into a large room with large heavy tables big enough to spread all your art crap on, arranged in a circle. About a half dozen students had already claimed their tables, so I found a vacant one. I wasn't sure if the teacher was in, or not. There wasn't a desk where a teacher would sit. A door that may have been used as an office was situated in the far wall, beyond some easels and clutter.

I spotted a dark haired woman in faded jeans and frilly top moved around the room. Possibly in her forties, she reminded me of my Aunt Jessica a little bit. Her long, brown hair was braided down her back. She had an earthy look to her, as did my aunt Jessica.

“Go ahead and take out your drawing pencils and sketch pads,” she said. “Today we'll be considering shading.”

That was a good thing to consider for an hour and a half.