Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 2

  Then it happened. From cheek to chin the blade slid, creating a jagged crimson line. The footage on the screen grew pixelated as the girl thrashed wildly, blood leaking from the wound and painting a smeared red wing over her cheek. The thrashing intensified until she toppled from view.

  “Enough!” The old man launched to his feet. So did Michelle, who lifted the barrel from the waitress’s neck and pointed it across the table. If the old man noticed the gun was aimed at him, he didn’t show it. His eyes were fixed on the screen. “Enough. I’ll tell you the names.”

  For a moment, nobody moved. There was no sound but the patter of sake dripping onto the floor. The two staffers shook in their seats, their breaths shuddering. The old man glanced at them, acknowledging them for the first time in minutes. Then he looked toward Michelle.

  “Benjiro Orochi and Goro Fujima.”

  “I need more than their names,” Michelle said.

  “In the main dining room, check the locked drawer beneath the cash register. You’ll find two envelopes with money inside. They’re stamped and addressed. I was planning to mail them tomorrow.”

  “If the drawer’s locked, where’s the key?”

  “My front pocket.”

  “Slowly place it on the table.”

  The old man fished out a jingling set of keys.

  Michelle ordered the waitress to fetch the envelopes. She gave the waitress thirty seconds. The girl ran out and raced back within twenty. Michelle checked the addresses. One in Texas, the other in Pennsylvania. It appeared she had a long road trip ahead.

  No sense sticking around.

  “Twenty years ago,” Michelle said, eyeing the Emperor, “my parents were murdered in front of me. The bullet that killed my mother caught her in the chest. The one that killed my father tunneled through the right side of his head.” She let that sink in a second. “Which would you prefer?”

  The old man frowned. “Is there no other way?”

  Michelle lined up the barrel with his head. “Look to your left. For your daughter’s sake.”

  Glaring, the old man turned his head.

  The gunshot roared.

  Four down, two to go.

  Chapter 2

  Ken Fujima stood outside his classroom on what he hoped would be his final day as a substitute.

  The hallways of D. Morgan High School rumbled as his students rushed to beat the third-period bell. Maybe it was his imagination, but everything had a friendly shine today—the students’ faces, the pea-soup-colored lockers, even the floors, which hadn’t been waxed in ages. Though the school always smelled of wax, the floors never got their share, much like how Ken never got his full-time position. Today, however, things would change. He could feel it.

  Today would mark a much-needed fresh start.

  The bell rang, and he shook hands with every student on their way in. It was a technique he’d learned from a mentor in college. Shaking hands set the tone and earned kids’ respect. Not that it earned him their total respect.

  “Yo, Mr. Fuj!” a jock yelled during roll call. “We can’t have the test tomorrow.”

  “Why not?” Ken asked.

  “Cause I can’t tell the difference between William James and LeBron James.”

  The other jocks snickered.

  “William James and LeBron have more in common than you’d think,” Ken said, raising his voice above the piercing squeal of the construction underway outside. “Last night I put together a handout that should make your lives easier.”

  “Pushing back the test would make our lives easier.”

  “Don’t sell yourselves short.” Ken smiled. Around ten years ago he’d been sitting in the same chairs and suffering from the same jitters. He knew how intimidating the first test of the year could be. “I may not know all your names yet, but I know you’re all capable of passing. Stay positive.”

  “Um, Mr. Fujima,” a girl up front said. “I think we, like, need to start over.”

  “Yeah,” the jock said. “Let’s hit the reset button. No test tomorrow.” He slapped his desk. “No. Test. Tomorrow. No! Test! Tomorrow!”

  Others picked up the chant.

  Ken’s smile faded. He could feel himself losing the room. He adjusted his glasses and powered through roll call. Everyone was here except Pete Chang, who routinely slumped in late. Pete wanted nothing to do with this class, which made him Ken’s top priority. Once his full-time position kicked in, Ken would sit Pete down to discuss learning strategies and study habits. For now, however, he needed to wrangle in the others.

  “William James founded pragmatism,” he said, grabbing a piece of chalk off the ledge. “Pragmatism means dealing with your problems in a practical way, as opposed to an idealistic one. So when LeBron gets triple-teamed by a defense—”

  “Mr. Fujima,” another girl said, waving her hand like she was directing air traffic. “Think you’ll be our permanent teacher?”

  Heat rushed to his cheeks. Sweat puddled along his back. He wished he’d worn a t-shirt beneath his short-sleeve button-down. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Hope you get the position, Mr. Fuj,” someone said. “You’re nicer than the other subs.”

  “Thanks. Now, before we get off track—”

  The door to the classroom swung open. In trudged Pete Chang. He wore a black hoodie and hung his head as if an anvil were attached to his nose. He took his seat at the front corner of the room without glancing up.

  “Morning, Mr. Chang,” Ken said, marking his roll sheet. “Any hall passes or late slips?”

  Pete took out a notebook and a blue sketch pencil. He flipped to a clean page and started scribbling.

  “Mr. Chang?”

  The boy kept scribbling.

  “Since we’re all here now,” Ken said, turning his attention to the class, “let’s be pragmatic and turn to page sixty.”

  A goth girl raised her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “I know we’re not supposed to be on our phones,” she said, lifting her iPhone above her desk, “but the school website announced the new full-time teacher.”

  Ken’s mouth went dry. The chalk between his fingers dropped to the floor with a click. To steady himself, he planted both hands on his desk. The room seemed to narrow, posters of long-deceased psychologists and philosophers squeezing in on him like they wanted him to join them in that great mystery called death. Outside, the construction machinery grumbled with an ear-wrecking screech.

  “Who?” He coughed his words. “Who is it?”

  “Hang on,” she said. “It’s loading. It says…oh.”

  Oh. Clearly an “Oh” of disappointment. But was she disappointed that he was or wasn’t her full-time teacher?

  “Oh no.” She blushed under heavy makeup. “It’s somebody named Trevor Tyson.”

  Ken stared at the back of her phone. Trevor Tyson? He’d never worked with anyone named Trevor Tyson. Never even heard of him. The guy was probably some outsider they reeled in from Philly or western Pennsylvania. Wherever he came from, it didn’t matter.

  The job was taken.

  Gone.

  For Ken, there would be no big turnaround. Not this time, at least. So much for quitting his weekend job and getting his life in order.

  The students buzzed with curiosity. Girls wondered out loud whether Tyson was hot. Guys asked if he was related to Mike Tyson. Phones came out. Thumbs patted screens. Somebody found Tyson’s Facebook. Girls saw it and squealed. Many hearts throbbed—including Ken’s, which flubbed in defeat.

  “The website,” Ken said. “Does it say when Tyson starts?”

  “Monday.”

  “Well then.” He sank into his chair. “Guess you can have a study hall.”

  Cheers erupted throughout the classroom. The only one who didn’t roar with excitement was Pete Chang, who continued sketching in his notebook. Ken wandered over and noticed Pete had scribbled a series of jagged lines. Earlier this week Ken had confiscated an impressive sketch of a crystal cave
rn, but today it seemed Pete was more interested in grinding his pencil against the paper.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Chang?”

  Scribble. Scribble.

  “You don’t seem yourself. Something wrong?”

  Scribble.

  “We can talk out in the hall if you want.”

  Scribble.

  Out of nowhere a girl by the window exclaimed, “Holy shit, Mr. Fujima!”

  Ken should’ve chided her for the profanity, but he didn’t care anymore. “What?”

  The girl raised her phone. “This Tyson guy—I creeped on his Facebook and found his relationship status.”

  “You should ignore that.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t get any romantic ideas. Not with a teacher.”

  “It’s not that,” she said, blushing. “Tyson’s listed as in a relationship—with the principal’s daughter.”

  The news couldn’t have struck him any harder if it were strapped to a nuclear missile. “You’re kidding.”

  “For reals,” she said. “He’s dating Principal Soward’s daughter, the one who coaches JV field hockey. Doesn’t that make this, uh, what’s it called? Neptunism?”

  “Nepotism.”

  When he checked her phone, he almost gagged. Tyson was dating the eldest daughter of the lady who’d hired him. Unreal. One profile picture even depicted the two kissing atop a Ferris wheel.

  “What’re you gonna do, Mr. Fuj?” someone asked.

  “Nothing.” Ken tucked his hands in his pockets. It felt like broken glass was stuck in his throat. “I’m sure he’s…qualified.”

  “No way!” a jock said. “Stick it to the principal. Burn her to the ground.”

  “At least tell someone,” a nerdy boy said. “Like the superintendent.”

  Ken frowned and returned to his desk. “Phones away, please. It’s study hall.”

  “You’re not gonna rip Soward a new one?”

  Ken had to laugh. “I need to stay professional. Other teaching positions will open up. If not here, then elsewhere.”

  Chatter spread across the room. Before long, a chant started in the back and rolled forward like a mounting wave.

  “Stick. It. To. Soward.”

  “Stick! It! To! Soward!”

  Their support warmed him. No denying that. But the decision had been made and fighting it would hurt him in the long run. The next open position might be his.

  Then again, he’d said that last month. And last year. When he returned to teaching after his messy hiatus, he never expected to be subbing this long. Nearly a dozen teachers had retired or left the area, yet he hadn’t replaced any of them.

  “STICK. IT. TO. SOWARD.”

  Ken certainly wanted to. The principal had roadblocked him many times, despite his qualifications. Now she was pulling strings at his expense. When would it end?

  “STICK. IT. TO. SOWARD.”

  Perhaps the students were right—he should confront her. Well, maybe not confront her, but ask why she turned down his application.

  “STICK! IT! TO! SOWARD!”

  Yes. He should.

  Might be worth the risk.

  If he were man enough.

  “STICK! IT! TO—”

  “Everyone quiet!” Ken straightened his skinny tie. “Behave while I step out.”

  The class let out a cheer. He was no dummy—he knew they wanted him gone so they could goof off, but the cheer invigorated him nonetheless.

  He marched out the door.

  Chapter 3

  The closer Ken got to Soward’s office, the weaker his stride became. With every step, cannon fire boomed inside his chest. How his sternum could absorb such impact was beyond him. He charged onward, rubbing his sweaty hands against his khakis and sucking deep breaths of unusually warm air. Was it just him or had a student started a fire in one of the lockers? The heat seemed excessive for late September in Pennsylvania.

  The moment he turned the corner and saw the office’s mahogany door, his knees hardened to concrete. Something about this hallway always suffocated him, as if a colorless, odorless poison were seeping through the vent. Now that he thought of it, maybe he should turn back and order an oxygen tank off eBay. Try another time. Play smart. Live to teach another day.

  But he’d thought the same thing before and look where it got him. Nowhere. Today he had hard evidence. Something that indisputably exposed her corrupt hiring practices. If he backed down, he didn’t deserve the job. Period.

  With a wheezy breath, he approached the gates of administrative hell. He gripped the doorknob, remembered to stand tall with his shoulders back, and entered the reception area. An administrator nibbling on a powdered doughnut glanced up. “Principal Soward’s on the phone. Mind waiting?”

  “N-no.” Ken’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll wait.”

  There were three seats along the wall. He sat in the one closest to the principal’s door. He fidgeted and focused intently on the muffled voice inside. Though he couldn’t make out a word, the conversation seemed upbeat. In all the time he’d known Soward, she’d never sounded so pleasant. She even laughed at one point before Ken heard her hang up.

  “You can go in,” the admin said around a mouthful of doughnut. “Have fun in the lion’s den.”

  Ken forced a smile.

  This is it. Stay positive, he reminded himself, and positive things will happen.

  As he wobbled to his feet, he adjusted his tie, his glasses, his hair. He’d gelled it back this morning for extra confidence, but now it felt oozy, as though his brains were leaking through his scalp.

  With a sweaty hand he opened the door.

  What the admin referred to as the lion’s den, Ken thought of as the torture chamber. Not only did the office sit at the westernmost point of the building, avoiding the morning sun, it contained an absurd number of metal objects. A steel desk stood dead center, topped with a chrome adjustable lamp. The bulb shined over a dented pencil jar containing several pairs of scissors, their blades hiding like sharks beneath the surface. Computer printouts swamped her workspace, some anchored down by tin paperweights. Along the walls ran file cabinets, sealing the room like a cold steel tomb.

  The back of Principal Helen Soward’s executive leather chair faced him. She pecked at computer keys at the rear desk, coughing before she made a primal, mucus-clearing noise. She reached for a Kleenex, spat into it, and dropped the soiled tissue into her wastebasket before swiveling around.

  “Mr. Fujima. Hello.” Soward stared him down like a pest she couldn’t figure out how to exterminate. She tucked her mustard-colored hair behind her ears, exposing wrinkled cheeks. Many students referred to her as the Mummy, and while Ken wasn’t one for name-calling, he found it hard to disagree. The combination of shriveled skin, spray-on tan, and her trademark scowl left her looking like something exhumed from Old Hollywood. “If this is about the pizza party in the teacher’s lounge, you’re too late to request additional toppings. We already ordered.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then whatever it is, make it quick. I’m doing a fire drill in five minutes.”

  His legs wobbled. “Can I have a seat?”

  When he’d left his classroom, he pictured himself charging in here and slapping his hands on her desk like a TV lawyer. Now, however, he trembled as he lowered himself into the chair facing her desk. At eye level was a brass photo frame containing a picture of Soward with her husband and three kids. Each held a hunting rifle and stood behind a deer carcass at their feet. Soward’s eldest daughter grinned nearly as wide as in her boyfriend’s profile picture.

  “I’d like to talk about the open position.”

  “It’s not open anymore. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  “I did.” He clutched his phone. On his screen was the profile picture. He took a shaky breath and tried to make eye contact. “Did you…”

  “Speak up, Mr. Fujima.”

  “Did you…” He cleared his throat. His voice came out a whisper. “Did yo
u congratulate your daughter’s boyfriend?”

  “Excuse me?” she said. “Speak up.”

  “I, uh…” He flipped his phone around. “Look.”

  Soward glanced down, her bony hands folded atop her paperwork. She said nothing, only stared.

  It was over. He’d won.

  “This isn’t fair to me and the other applicants,” he said. “What you did was—”

  “Hold on.” Soward lifted a hand. She grabbed his phone and studied it—not the screen but the entire device, as if she’d never seen a cell phone before. Her eyes pierced his with a frigid blue gaze. “What’s this doing in my office?”

  The Mummy lives, he thought.

  “Your newest hire,” he said. “I looked him up and—”

  “Again,” she said, shaking his phone. “What’s this doing in my office?”

  “I’m trying to explain.”

  “I’ll ask one last time. What’s this thing doing in my office? Because it appears this device”—she slapped the phone down beside her photo frame—“is meant to pressure me into giving you something you want. Are you trying to extort a promotion, Mr. Fujima?”

  “No—I just want to be taken seriously.”

  “I took every application seriously.” She rose to her feet. “Do you honestly think I would dole out a job without regard for qualifications?”

  “No.”

  “Do I look stupid to you, Mr. Fujima?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then get out.” She stormed past him and opened the door. “In fact, I’ll escort you out since I have to pull the fire alarm. By the way, who’s covering your class?”

  He swallowed hard.

  “Nobody?” She fumed past the admin’s desk. “Wonderful. You left your class unattended. How professional.”

  Ken hurried alongside her, trying to match her gait as they headed down the hall. “I want the job, Mrs. Soward. I have experience—years of it. I won awards. My students had the highest test scores in the area. Even now I sacrifice my lunch breaks to help students if they need it. I always put them first. Isn’t that the whole point of what we do here?”

  “The point?” She stopped at the fire alarm and curled her fingers around the lever. “The point, at least from my perspective, is to hire the appropriate candidate. You may have experience, but there’s a good reason your previous school fired you. Or am I wrong?”