4 The Killing Bee by Matt Witten

morning paper. Her face is pale and lined and she's been up all night, worrying about her beloved but troubled son . . . and about the imminent doom of her small business. She sees a car driving past. It's Sam Meckel, school principal, pulling up in front of the school.
    A terrible rage grabs hold of Sylvia. Her son has been viciously maligned by this man. Declared defective. She hurries across the street, follows him into his office, and confronts him, screaming. Offscreen, Barry Richardson is in the john and hears it. Laura Braithwaite is out back smoking.
    In the office, Meckel tells Sylvia to shut up and get the hell out if she can't control herself. He's not listening to her anymore, her kid is screwed up and that's that. Sylvia can't take it. She snaps. Grabs the nearest weapon, not wanting to kill him necessarily, jus t hurt him like he hurt her. . .
    Were there any flaws in this scenario? I gazed thoughtfully at the darkened school —
    And suddenly a light came on inside Sam Meckel's office.
    It was so small and dim and stayed on so briefly that at first I thought I'd just imagined it. But then it came on again.
    It was a flashlight.
    Who was snooping around with a flashlight in Sam Meckel's office in the dead of night?
    I moved closer to the office window, hoping it was too dark outside for the mysterious intruder to spot me. But before I could see who was in there, an unseen hand pulled down the Venetian blinds. Now I couldn't look in anymore.
    Should I just stay put and wait for the intruder to come back outside?
    But what if he or she slipped out the back door and I never even found out who it was? I'd feel like a flaming idiot. Chief Walsh would never believe I'd seen what I'd seen.
    Should I call the cops right now? But where was the nearest pay phone? Probably Washington Street. How long would it take me to run over there?
    Seven or eight minutes, probably. Too long.
    I made up my mind. I ran swiftly across the schoolhouse lawn. I almost tripped on a thick branch that must have just fallen from the big oak tree that shaded the front of the school. On an impulse I reached down and found the branch in the darkness. Then I snapped it in two with my feet, so I had a manageable weapon about as long as a baseball bat.
    Then I hurried toward the front door again, taking my AAA card out of my wallet as I went. From experience I'd learned that certain AAA cards—the flexible ones—do a better job of opening locked doors than your average credit card.
    It ’s funny, I'll bet I get more emotional satisfaction from my successful burglaries than I get from my hit movie or any of the stage plays I've written. In my most primal reptilian soul, being a macho-type lawbreaker is a lot more fulfilling than being a sensitive artiste .
    I looked around for security alarms and motion sensors, but didn't see any; Saratoga's not as security conscious as larger cities. I put my hand on the door handle and was about to work my AAA razzle -dazzle, but then stopped quickly. It looked like I wouldn't get a chance to showcase my amazing lock-picking skills tonight. Somebody had already unlocked the door.
    How rude of them.
    I opened it and walked in, then closed it gently behind me. Not a sound. No scurrying mice, no electronic hums. It was pitch-black. The Exit sign at the far end of the hall shed no light way over here.
    Holding the branch in my left hand, I put out my right hand and felt my way along the wall. After a few steps, the wall turned into a window. This, I knew, was the window to the front office, Ms. Helquist’s domain.
    The window gave way to empty space. I'd come to the intersection of two hallways. I turned the corner, reached out, and felt the window again. Still the front office. But then the window ended and my hand felt another wall. I kept going, slinking as softly as I could in my Nikes. At last the wall gave way to a door.
    Mr. Meckel's door.
    It was shut. And the intruder was inside.
    Doing what —looking for