Slaughterhouse High

"I… I guess you're right," he said, noting the attractive combination of strength and naivete in Winnie's eyes. "We'll give it a try. Oh but what about these?" He fingered his right stub and her pale-green friendship lobe, liking the way hers felt.

"I'm betting there's a supply of Tuffskin somewhere in the house, give you some heft and cover my coloring," she said. "It's not ideal. But what with the subdued lighting at the dance, and given that we'll try to avoid others until the moment of revelation, it just might work. Come on, Brayton, let's look for it."

"Call me Bray," he said.

She huffed and grabbed his hand and yanked him stairward. He followed, admiring her thigh-swish and ankle-turn as they climbed the steps.

In the kitchen, the air cleared of death stench. But there were whiffs of gore that didn't vanish even when he closed the cellar door, and a quick search of the house brought them face to face with the teacher's wives.

"I think," said Bray, staring down at the fresh corpses, "we ought to consider revising our opinion of our savior."

"Poor things," said Winnie. "But sometimes pawns must be sacrificed for the greater good. He had to kill the teacher. Maybe these two put up a struggle."

"Does it look like they struggled? Phew, it's amazing how quickly dead folks start to stink. Besides which, why didn't he just truss them up? Why didn't he lock that guy down there in a closet or something, roped many times over as tight as a mummy so he had no way to escape?"

"Beats me." She picked up a packet from the end table. Its contents started to spill out the open end, but Winnie caught them in time. "Instructions for the designated slasher."

"I think the wacko family member theory is starting to make a lot of sense. Either it's totally coincidental our couch guy was murdered tonight, or his being chosen as slasher finally drove, I don't know, maybe his son over the edge."

Ignoring him, Winnie leafed through the documents.

"I bet the killer's hundreds of miles away by now."

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

"He won't be anywhere near the prom."

Winnie glared at him. "Either way," she said, "no couple will be sacrificed tonight. So either we'll back what our savior has to say; or, if he doesn't show, we'll step forward to put our best spin on the student slaughter that wasn't."

End of discussion.

"While you've been standing there flapping your lips," she went on, "I discovered some things: The dead guy's name is Fronemeyer. An art teacher. Ah. Here's a map of the town. They've even circled the school for us, thoughtful of them. Corundum High."

No surprise. The deputies's shoulder patches had had "Corundum, Kansas" sewn into them.

"Here are the intended victims' names. Tweed Megrim and… Dexter Poindexter. Jeepers, what a name. And where they'll be sitting during the stalking phase. Now, while I find the Tuffskin, you use the phone book-there can't be too many Fronemeyers-and the map to figure out where we are in relation to the high school. Also, call the parents of these two kids and tell them their targeted darlings are safe."

That seemed pointless. "I don't think we-"

"Just do it," Winnie said. "The more committed anti-slasher folks we can count on coming out of this, the better. If I have to plant terror in the hearts of hundreds of complacent mommies and daddies, so be it."

She headed off.

It was a relief to regain the kitchen, away from the sight of neck slashes and the spills of blood that idled down the slain wives' bodies.

In a cabinet above the wall phone, Bray found the white pages. Thin. One Fronemeyer. Moonglow Street, so short its name ran its length, no more than four miles from school.

Finding the numbers for the Megrims and the Poindexters was just as easy. But mustering the will to dial them was another matter.

Winnie returned with a tub of Tuffskin in her hand, a prize from her rummage through bathroom cabinets. She carried as well a thick wad of bills and a set of keys on a chain, both of which she stuffed into Bray's pants pockets. "Well?"

Bray pointed to the map. "We're here. Over here's Corundum High. It's seven ten now. Apply the Tuffskin, let the stuff seal, hit the road at seven thirty, and we should be right on time."

"Did you call them?"

"Not exactly, I-"

"Wimp!" She grabbed the pad and punched in a number. Six rings. "That's right," muttered Winnie, "catch some fast food and go bowling while your son dies."

She hung up and punched in the other number, her index finger moving with strength and purpose. Ring one, ring two, ring three, followed by a click, and a singing voice, to which she began to say something, stopping when she realized it was a recording.