Baader-Meinhof Blues

or alternatively: Sleepless in Illinois

Tucker edged warily into the school two minutes before the bell after a somewhat-more-silent-than-usual (but still life-threatening to the usual degree) carpool ride with Sam. Sam wasn't the most empathetic individual in most of the rooms she'd ever been in, but she could definitely tell how exhausted he was. A feral mongoose could probably tell how exhausted he was. Or, like, a sociopath. Tucker's analogies tended to break down a bit after what was essentially two all-nighters in a row. Hey, at least he'd been able to do all his homework for the past two days quick-and-crappy at 2 a.m. as a distraction. God, he was really brought low if he was using French syntax worksheets as a coping mechanism.

Sam had to run across campus for World History first period, so Tucker was on his own for the next few minutes. Joy. At least the hallway wasn't empty.

He napped through the documentary they were watching in French–for once Danny wasn't the only one conked out on his desk–and made it through the settlement of Jamestown unscathed in his U.S. History class. Halfway through CompSci, though, he realized with mounting horror that he very much needed to use the restroom.

Reluctantly, he ducked out of the class.

The hallway was empty. His sneakers squeaked slightly on the tile floor, mingling with the vague mumbling of a hundred voices that slid sibilantly around or rumbled through most of the closed classroom doors he passed. He was almost to the bathroom, with no sign of anything out of the ordinary, when out of nowhere a flash of movement–at his feet, too close! The grey fox wound around his legs, making him jump and swear. Tucker tore into the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind him, then ran to put his back to the opposite wall, heart pounding.

Only then did Tucker realize what a series of terrible decisions that had been, because the bathroom was dark, and he had a very bad feeling. It was frigid in the bathroom. And this time, no other fancy feelings came to Tucker. Just cold, and dread.

Tucker looked to his left and came face-to-face with a man in the mirror.

And it probably spoke volumes about the state he was in that his first half-hysterical thought was the first few bars of the chorus to Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" as the man grunted, "Hey. Kid."

I'm starting with the man, in, the mirror. He was wearing fatigues. Hunter's fatigues.

I'm asking him to chaaange his wayyys. Behind his beard, his lips were chapped and cracked. The worst Tucker had ever seen.

And no message, could've been aaany clearer. "Kid, I'll admit, I ain't never been very good at tracking. Usually I'll just go wandering through the forest, quiet as a mouse, until I find my quarry's done showed up right under my nose." His voice was deep, husky and as cracked as his lips. He wasn't old, maybe in his forties. His hair was mid-length, black and greasy.

If you wanna make the world, a better place– He lifted a finger and somehow, impossibly, started to write on the condensation on the mirror. The condensation caused by Tucker's own warm breath. He noticed in a detached way that he could actually see his breath, misting out in shallow puffs between them. The hunter's fingernails were cut short and visibly blue, with half-moons of dirt under the nails and cuticles.

Take a look at yourself

A series of symbols now stretched across the glass–thick lines just starting to drip.

And make a

The hunter grinned; there was dirt between his teeth. "Gimme a call, kid. Whenever you're ready." He turned and walked to the right, passing through two more mirrors and out the reflected door.

Tucker snapped out of his daze in time to feel his legs buckling beneath him but not in time to stop them. At the last moment he clutched at the sink with both arms, stopping himself before he could crash backward into one of the stalls. He clung there for a minute, breathing heavily, frantically, thinking this must be how a rabbit feels when the mountain lion passes by. And about how rabbits, more easily than almost any other animal, can actually die of fright.

He pulled himself up. With shaking hands, he fumbled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of the symbols on the mirror. Even in the photo, they showed up, clear as day.

Then Tucker sprinted out of the bathroom, letting the door bang shut behind him, and all the way to the school office. The secretary looked up, surprised; he could see the concern and alarm rush to the surface and leak out along the lines of her face the moment she registered him. "Oh, no, honey, what's wrong?"

"I need to go home."

"Are you sick? Do you need the nurse?"

"Uh–yeah. No, I mean–I don't need the nurse, I just–can I call my mom?"

"Of course, hon." She looked a little helpless, and only then did Tucker notice the tears in his eyes. He swallowed down a sob and turned away, though she'd obviously noticed. She paused for a second. "I'm going to go get you a glass of water, okay? I'll be right back. Go ahead and call your mom." She headed into the next room as Tucker sat down and choked on the thickness in his throat while he unlocked his phone. It took two tries to dial. "Mom? I'm sorry, I know you're at work…."

"It's okay, what is it, baby?" She'd definitely picked up on the hoarseness in his voice. And he was alone in the office. Tucker let his breath hitch. "I just–I need to come home."

Twenty minutes later the paranormal had officially won: Tucker's mom got to Casper High and drove him home.

~(*0*)~

On Friday, September 20, Sam was hella bored.

Tucker had texted her saying he was home sick, so there was no one to complain about Sam's death metal playlist or apologize to other motorists for her driving on the way to school. She actually ended up driving relatively safely without the added incentive to cut people off. Sam, obeying the speed limit! She might as well tattoo "conformist" on her forehead. Go all-in with a full-shaved-head portrait of Ronald Reagan.

Actually, that could be kind of cool, as sort of an ironic surrealist statement. Sam filed the idea away for future reference.

Anyway, the point is, she was bored.

So when she texted Danny at lunch "hey wya" and he responded "running late srry :/" just as she pushed through the doors to the cafeteria and spotted him hurrying out the other entrance, still looking at his phone...well, let's just say Sam was born without the instinct to leave well enough alone.

And she had reason to be curious! She'd asked Danny what he did when he disappeared (almost immediately after they'd started hanging out, and in MUN so Tucker wasn't there; Tucker got shy about the weirdest things) and he'd categorically denied doing anything besides what he told the teachers he was doing. He'd been phasing out the bathroom excuse, so that was usually "getting water." For ten minutes on average. She'd told him she didn't care if he did anything illegal and would probably respect him more if he did. She'd told him she wouldn't judge him if it was embarrassing and shared about her middle school collection of Goth-ified Barbies and Kens to prove it. He'd maintained his denial, and gotten all twitchy about it, too. "I just drink a lot of water!" he'd insisted in a hushed voice as the kid at the front of the room droned on about either parliamentary procedure or Venezuelan healthcare.

Now, Danny walked back into the school. Sam let the heavy doors swing closed behind her and followed.

He was moving fast under that big backpack. Something drifted down the hallway after him, briefly, almost invisibly; she stumbled straight into a haze in the air that dissipated in little midair whirlpools upon her intrusion. Was he smoking? If so, then why hadn't she seen anything in his hand or mouth? And why did it smell like nothing?

She scrambled around three freshmen gabbing by the water fountain (a process that involved bumping painfully into the glass case with a fireman's axe and fire extinguisher projecting from the opposite wall) in time to catch a last glimpse of the backpack's many zippers disappearing into a supply closet. The door banged shut audibly; two of the freshman shot it weirded-out glances before continuing to discuss the latest bio test, which Sam gathered had them all righteously appalled.

Here was a conundrum. Sam hadn't eaten lunch yet, and she'd rather not eat her vegetable fried rice soggy and cold when there was a school microwave available in the cafeteria. However, if she left she might never find out what about Danny was so off. So it came down to a question of which was stronger: her hunger for secrets, or her hunger for dehydrated carrot bits in a soy sauce reduction?

The carrot bits won out. Sam headed back to the cafeteria with only minor reluctance.

There was, as usual, a line for the microwave. Sam and a powerful coalition of the kids with weird allergies had fought the school for that goddamn microwave for months, and of course this was how it repaid her. It was located on its own table under the southern windows; Sam tapped one combat boot the whole time and glared down the scrawny little sophomore who dared to raise an annoyed eyebrow at the noise. He scurried away with his head down low over his steaming (to a completely unnecessary degree–he could have taken a minute off of that cook time) gluten-free pasta. Finally, her turn had arrived. She cranked the dial and waited impatiently for the wonders of modern technology to be over with.

Two minutes later, freshly armed with a hot plate of rice and a refilled Hydroflask, Sam clomped urgently back to the school proper. She tried taking a few clumsy bites as she walked, but what with the canteen in one hand and the backpack weighing her down she soon gave up the attempt.

The hallway was in the process of emptying. She passed the three freshman girls, the entire math club, and Danny on their way out. Danny was hanging his head low and looking generally exhausted. He noticed her a few feet away and paused, leaning too-casually on one pockmarked yellow wall and mustering a smile. "Hey, Sam! You heading to the cafeteria?"

She smiled back, equally forced. "I gotta stop in the bathroom real quick, I'll meet you there in a minute."

"Alright, see you." He trudged out, snaking around the math club to escape into the sunlight she'd just left behind.

She really would join him in a minute. But first, she checked up and down the hallway and then tried the handle on the door Danny had disappeared behind earlier, labelled "JANITOR'S CLOSET" by a sad little nameplate of fake mahogany that slanted diagonally from its only remaining screw.

It was locked. Probably automatically. Hmm.

Well, the area was still empty of teachers and known snitches. Sam pulled two bobby pins out of her half-up ponytail and got to work.

The door was a pretty easy pick, and it wasn't even alarmed! (Which was good, because she didn't even consider that possibility until she was already turning the handle.) Inside was….

A janitor's supply closet.

Sam supposed it was about what she'd expected: beige walls with the frequency of unidentifiable stains increasing near the floor, a vent in the ceiling since there were chemicals in storage, one of those big yellow cart-buckets giving a chemical bath to a mop, and a shelving system supporting various cleaning supplies, rat traps, and a black binder that teetered off one edge. It was a bit roomier than she'd expected. She flipped flippantly through the binder, but it was just an index for the contents of the shelves.

Everything you'd expect to find in a janitor's closet was there, but one thing was missing: it didn't smell like smoke.

There was no way it could have dissipated that quickly. And for another thing, there was a green-blinking smoke alarm clearly visible next to the vent! So Danny hadn't been smoking. But then why the hell has he been in there?! He could've been crying, but it really hadn't looked like it when he'd passed her in the hallway. He could've been napping, but he'd already demonstrated that he could and would do that pretty much anywhere. What did that leave? Stealing cleaning chemicals?

The janitor's closet held a lot of mousetraps and 409, but no answers. She glared for a minute at the mop, and then left it behind, carrying her fried rice and her questions with her.

She didn't like the closet, anyway. It gave her a weird feeling, like cold fingers at the base of her spine. Must be the Windex fumes.

~(*0*)~

After dinner, which was abnormally quiet probably so his parents could devote all their energy to giving him intermittent sympathetic looks, Tucker sat on the couch and toyed with his PDA while his dad read the newspaper next to him. His online friends were active tonight. " tkfire u live in illinois right?" asked a guy who said his name was Jeff, although his username on this particular forum was "bootyslayer420." Tucker was not positive it was meant to be ironic. Tucker's thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before he answered.

" bootyslayer420 yeah why?"

" tkfire u anywhere near this whole serial killer case?"

Tucker drew his hands back as if the PDA had started spitting out sparks uncontrollably (again). He considered, tongue playing with the backs of his incisors. Then, palms sweaty, he avoided the question. " bootyslayer420 y do u know about that? its not national news or anything"

Another user, purportedly hailing from the UAE with the username "proud2bweeb," piled on. " bootyslayer420 ya why r u so interested in this u creep! [laughing emoji]"

" proud2bweeb **** off, its interesting tkfire so do u live near chicago? or amity?"

" bootyslayer420 lol u literally just revealed ur a serial killer groupie, now is not the time to ask where he lives..."

Tucker sent a brief note of agreement and then closed out to let proud2bweeb fight his battles for him.

He browsed drowsily through Netflix for a while (yes, his PDA had Netflix. Sheryl was perfect) but didn't find anything of interest. Finally, having thoroughly exhausted his digital entertainment options, he glanced at the front page of his dad's open newspaper.

And it wasn't really surprise he experienced, more a dread-filled leaden weariness that sank stinging into his gut, when he saw the picture next to the bottom article, and the picture was of the blue-haired girl. Because yeah, duh, of course it was Amber McClain. That didn't mean he hadn't wished with all his willpower that it wasn't. That this would stop coming up in every area, every moment of his life. That he could escape this, somehow.

Leaning forward and ignoring the way the slight movements of his dad's hands rippled the paper, he skimmed the article. "The Amity police have been comparatively liberal with details, leading some to question their…" "...modus operandi appears to have changed. After the third victim, Ainara…" "...multiple stab wounds to the throat and chest, leading some investigators to question…" "...Amber McClain, 21, a graduate of Casper Williamson High School…" "...parents declined to comment."

Tucker slumped back into the couch for a second, feeling numb. His fingertips were tingling. Slowly, he reached for the PDA he'd left beside him and searched "Victor Schulker." The man in the picture–the same picture shown on the 3 a.m. news, he remembered now–was younger, and cleaner, but he had the same dark beard and chapped lips as the thing in the mirror that morning.

At least now Tucker knew more of what he was up against. He opened his messages with Sam and typed one sentence, then stared at it for a minute before one thumb-tap sent it off.

It read, "i need u to help me summon a ghost."